If you’d told me months ago that I’d be standing on a hill with Lena, tasting sunlight instead of sorrow, I would’ve laughed in your face. Or walked away. Probably both. But here I am—here we are—with the morning still wrapped around us like a quiet promise. By the time we walk back into town, I feel lighter. Not healed, not fixed—just… less haunted. Like someone finally opened a window in a house that had been dark for too long. Lena walks beside me, her fingers brushing mine every few seconds, as if reassuring herself that I’m still here. I don’t pull away. I don’t tense. I don’t retreat into myself. Not today. The street vendors are setting up stands. A few townspeople wave—people who used to look at me like a stranger they weren’t sure they should talk to. Now, they look at me differently. Softer. Maybe because Lena once told them I was a good man. Maybe because she said it with enough conviction that they believed her. Maybe because she made me start believing it too. W

A week after the lake, I start noticing something I hadn’t before. The stillness. Not the kind that comes from peace, but the kind that comes right before an old wound decides it isn’t done with you. It happens on an ordinary afternoon. Lena is in the garden, her sleeves rolled up, humming as she prunes the small lemon tree we planted in early spring. The shop is closed for the day, the sky a soft, cloudless blue. Everything feels gentle — untouched. But inside me, something shifts. A tremor. A memory. A voice I had convinced myself had finally gone quiet. I’m wiping the counter in the kitchen when it hits — not a flashback, not fear, just… heaviness. The kind that settles behind the ribs like an old visitor who didn’t knock before entering. For a moment, I freeze. The house is warm, sunlight spilling across the floor. Nothing is wrong. Nothing is breaking. But the weight rises anyway, slow and steady, like an echo of a life I left behind. I close my eyes, inhale. And I le

The hours after Lena’s confession stretched like a wire pulled too tight. We walked back from the lake in silence — not the comfortable kind we sometimes shared, where words weren’t needed because the space between us was full. This silence was heavier. Denser. It felt like something was following us through the mist, stepping exactly where we stepped, exhaling when we exhaled. By the time we reached her shop, the fog had thinned, but the tension inside me hadn’t. Lena paused at the doorway, her hand on the handle, and looked back at me. Her eyes searched my face, trying to read thoughts even I wasn’t ready to understand. “Do you want to come in?” she asked softly. I hesitated. I wanted to. God, I wanted to. But the moment I stepped inside her safe world, I knew I would bring pieces of my danger with me. Pieces she didn’t deserve. But she didn’t look away. Didn’t step back. Didn’t hide. So I nodded. She unlocked the door and let me inside. The shop smelled like comfort — ro

The shop felt impossibly small. The scent of flowers, which had once been soft and comforting, now hung in the air like a fragile layer over something sharper, more dangerous. Cole was there. Standing near the doorway, casual, confident, and impossibly wrong in this safe little space. My chest tightened, not just from fear, but from the recognition of something I thought I had buried long ago — that raw, relentless tension that comes from facing a man who once meant everything and now meant ruin. Lena was behind me, her presence a calm I needed, but also a reminder of what I had to protect. Her hand slid into mine, a grip full of courage and quiet insistence, and suddenly I realized I was holding more than just her hand — I was holding all the pieces of myself that had almost given up. Cole’s gaze moved over her for a fraction of a second before returning to me. That smirk of his, the same smirk that had haunted my nightmares, hadn’t faded with time. He had aged, yes — the lines aro

The warehouse loomed ahead, abandoned, dark, and silent in the dying light of day. Its broken windows reflected streaks of orange from the sunset, jagged shadows stretching across the cracked concrete. The smell of damp and decay hung thick in the air, carrying memories I’d hoped I’d left behind years ago. Memories of fire, betrayal, blood, and loss. Cole stood near the center, motionless, like he was carved from the shadows themselves. The smirk was gone, replaced by something sharper — predatory, deliberate. He had chosen this place for a reason. He knew its corners, its blind spots, its empty threats. And I knew he would exploit every one. I crouched behind a pile of old crates, watching. My pulse was steady despite the tension, my muscles coiled, my mind running through every scenario. Every exit, every weak point, every strategy I had ever learned in my life. Survival was instinct, but strategy — strategy was the difference between living and dying. Cole’s voice cut through th